


Unexpected

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: "I'm running late to work and you hit me with your motorcycle because you're also late and no, I don't want to go to the hospital because I can't miss this meeting and could you please just give me a ride instead?"





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

Kurt loved living in New York.  He really did.

But sleeping through two alarms and having a mini heart attack when he caught the time was not an ideal way of to experience the big city.  As it was, every vice that the city had to offer emerged in his dash to recover lost time: the shower ran cold, his hair refused to style properly, his satchel almost yanked him off his feet when it failed to clear the bedpost that it was attached to on the first try, and of course, a strange spilled coffee on his favorite shirt less than a block from his apartment.  After apologizing in a tight clip for smacking headlong into the man, Kurt beat a hasty retreat to his apartment for damage control and took the four flights three steps at a time, out of breath by the time he reemerged on the street wearing a completely new outfit, hair once more askew.

Uncaring, he pelted down the sidewalk, glancing at his watch and worrying his sleeve as he waited at a stoplight.  He might have risked crossing while it was still green had he not received a text from Isabelle just then reminding him about their meeting with Anna Wintour to discuss fall designs in less than an hour.

Anna Wintour. 

Kurt's heart leapt into his throat -- assuming the subways were on time, it left him only a scant margin of time to get Vogue dot com headquarters -- but he didn't falter as he punched out a quick reply and pocketed his phone, hiking his satchel higher over his shoulder as the light finally turned red.  Dashing across the crosswalk, he was halfway around the corner when--

Bam!

Kurt oofed as what felt like a small rhinoceros plowed into him.  He hit the ground hard and stared, momentarily dazed, as the owner hurried over to him, babbling apologies.

"Oh my God, are you okay?  I'm so sorry, I didn't see you -- are you hurt?  Can you get up?"

The rhinoceros was actually a small motorcycle and the owner a young man with dark, curly hair peeking out from underneath a navy-colored beanie, hazel eyes almost comically wide with alarm as he hovered overhead.

Sitting up with a wince, Kurt said stiffly, "I'm fine."  His back was killing him and he might actually have a bruise the size of a melon on his hip by tomorrow morning, but neither of those things mattered because Anna Wintour wouldn't see them; she'd see his designs.  But only if he showed up for the meeting in ... God, how much time had already passed?

Heart pounding, aware that every second trickling away was another moment that his future slipped between his fingers, he looked down at the cracked lens of his watch and asked, "What time is it?"

People were beginning to stare and Kurt forced himself to his feet, feeling creaky and dirty with street grime but still solid, still whole.  A warm, gloved hand caught him carefully around the elbow when he swayed, sliding along his back to support him as its owner asked worriedly, "You don't have a concussion, do you?"  Then, decisively, he was steered over to a bench, the motorbike temporarily abandoned against the side of the street as its owner insisted, "You need to go to a hospital."

Exasperated, Kurt sat and rearranged his satchel on his shoulder before saying, "I'm not going to press charges against you, I promise, just please, please tell me what time it is."

Two triangular eyebrows dipped low in confusion, a gloved hand itching to extend before it was tucked into a coat pocket instead.  Looking down, the stranger pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch, answering, "It's 9:40.  Is there someone I can call for you?  I really don't think you should drive yourself.  Or walk yourself.  I mean, I could give you a ride -- it's the least I could do--"

It clicked at once what he needed to do, and Kurt didn't hesitate as he stood, prompting another twitch of the stranger's hand before he pulled it back, not offering the help he clearly wanted to.  "Can I ask you a favor?"

Prompt, unwavering: "Anything."

For a moment, Kurt was almost charmed by the stranger's dedication to fix the situation.  Most New Yorkers would probably have kept driving.  Even so, politeness was keeping him from his goal, and he kept that in mind as he said, "I need a ride to the Conde Nast building.  It's on 1472 Broadway--"

Geometrically-Correct Eyebrows frowned.  "But--"

"Please," Kurt said, knowing that he was pleading and that it was ridiculous, absurd even, to be asking this of a complete stranger, but said stranger hadhit him with his motorcycle, "I can't miss this meeting.  And I will go to the hospital right after."

That was a complete lie and he could tell that the biker suspected it, but all he said was, "Okay."  Then, with a nod to draw himself out of his own daze, he repeated, "Okay."

Kurt had never ridden a motorcycle before and perhaps should have warned the biker as much, especially since he did feel a touch unsteady on his feet.  Suppressing his worry, he donned a spare helmet and slid carefully onto the seat behind him, latching onto his narrow waist and screwing his eyes shut in anticipation.

And then they were off, and Kurt needn't have worried at all.  He opened his eyes to watch the streets pass, people and places blending together as they zipped along.  Resting his cheek on the back of the stranger's shoulder, he closed his eyes again and waited, deciding that even if being hit by a motorcycle wasn't his definition of a good start to the day, things could be worse.

Before Kurt knew it they slid to a halt in front of the Conde Nast building, the stranger's watch just visible -- 9:45 -- and Kurt breathed out deeply in relief as he unlatched his arms.  Had he not been running late, he might have fallen to his knees in gratitude, deeply relieved that in spite of everything he might even have time to salvage his helmet hair and grab a second-rate coffee from the lounge.

As it was, he scrambled off the bike, unhooking his helmet and passing it back to his unanticipated escort, meeting worried hazel eyes with a placating smile.

"Thanks for the ride--?" It took Kurt a moment to realize that he didn't even know the stranger's actual name, startling a tiny smile from his would-be savior as he accepted the helmet back and tucked it under an arm.

"Blaine," Blue Beanie -- Blaine -- replied.  Still looking troubled, he added, "NYADA -- the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts -- has a clinic.  It's cheaper and faster than the ER, if I can't persuade you to go there."  Fiddling with one of the helmet straps, he said, "I could -- we could drive over after your meeting?"

Kurt must have hit his head harder than he thought, because instead of explaining that he already went to NYADA -- that, indeed, he should have thought of placating the stranger with the same observation sooner -- the only words that came out of his mouth were, "How have I not seen you before?"

"I'm sorry?"

"At NYADA -- the classes, they're tiny."

"Oh," Blaine said, setting Kurt's helmet aside and reaching up to undo his own, ruffling his hair self-consciously.  "I'm not actually a student there -- I have a friend who goes there, I don't know if you know her -- Rachel Berry?"

"Wait," Kurt said, meeting almost entirely forgotten as he stepped forward, squinting at Blaine in sudden surreal recognition, "you know Rachel?"

"Yeah, we met back in high school -- rival Glee clubs, actually," Blaine explained, shifting on his bike.  "It's a long story; I don't want to keep you," he said, nodding at the building behind him.  "But, hey," he added, on sudden inspiration, fumbling in his coat pockets until he produced a piece of paper and a small, pocket-sized pen, jotting down a number quickly before holding it out.  "Please, call me if you need anything.  I owe you."

Kurt took the piece of paper carefully, folding it into his pocket and marveling at how differently his morning had gone than expected.

"I want to hear the rest of that story," was all he said.

Some of the tension in Blaine's shoulders eased as he smiled and replied, "Deal."

It was, Kurt reflected, an unexpected morning.  But not an altogether unpleasant one.

And when he finally called Blaine that night and demanded the full story, Blaine laughed and retorted, "I still don't even know your name."

"It's Kurt," Kurt replied, nursing a mug of tea in one hand as he eased back against the couch cushions, feeling inexplicably warm with success -- his meeting had gone beautifully and the bruise he'd been worried about had yet to bloom, offering him a few more hours of obliviousness before he had to deal with it.  Even getting hit by a motorcycle couldn't keep him down after that.

"So what's the story?  And why hasn't Rachel told me?"

"You'll have to ask her that," Blaine responded, jumping into the full story without further ado.

It didn't take long for Kurt to draw the connections -- same small town Ohio life, same passion for Glee club, same desire to escape and start a new life -- but he still listened in rapt attention as Blaine filled in the story, starting with the year that Kurt had missed sectionals due to his father's heart attack and leading up to his premature departure from the Warblers, overcome with unsavory figures.

"It was really disappointing," Blaine admitted.  "I was just grateful that my application to Tisch got accepted.  New York was freeing.  Lonely, but freeing."

 "I know what you mean," Kurt said, tea half-forgotten at his side.

"Mmhm.  I built a new life here.  It's been good so far."  Then, guiltily, Blaine added, "Except hitting you with a motorcycle.  I'm so sorry about that, I don't even know -- I was running late and I didn't even think about what I was doing--"

"It's fine," Kurt said, surprised at how fine it was.  Sure, he was sore, and if this weird friendship developed into anything more then he would definitely give Blaine hell for it, but for now, it was all right.  "Don't worry about it."

"I'm worried about you.  Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Kurt reiterated.  "Blaine.  I'm fine."

Pouting -- Kurt could hear it through the phone -- Blaine insisted, "Let me make it up to you."

"Blaine."

"I'm serious."

Dropping his own levity for a moment, Kurt answered, "I am, too.  You don't need to make it up to me."

"I want to."

A pause, lingering.  Kurt toyed with the rim of his mug, processing that.

He liked Blaine.  Not, liked-him liked-him (he almost ran me over with his motorcycle Rachel he is not my boyfriend), but he wanted to get to know him.  Maybe.  Was it too soon to make that call?  Kurt didn't know, but there was something easy and refreshing and nice to Blaine that he wanted to get to know more.  Something compelling.

"I might forgive you a little more over coffee," he teased.

In utter serious, Blaine said, "I'd love that." Then, fumbling a little, he added, "I mean, I'd love to.  Make it up to you.  Over coffee.  That would be wonderful."

Smiling, oddly satisfied in spite of himself, Kurt said, "Then it's settled."

And so it was.

* * *

Two weeks and three official dates later, it was Santana who finally broke and asked how they met.

Kurt gave Blaine hell for it, but he kept a hand near the small of Blaine's back, his shoulder, his elbow as he did the laundry and fended off Santana's questions.

The fleeting touches were enough to confirm that in spite of the absurdity of it all -- and, indeed, perhaps because of it -- all was well.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
